Between the Lines
by Jacqueline Albright-Beckett
Summary: A collection of Destiel shorts and ficlets, one posted every day for the month of July.
1. Freckles

Dean tried to ignore that, as was frequently the case, Castiel was standing uncomfortably close. "No gas stations between here and Missoula, so remind me to..." From the corner of his eye Dean saw a tuft of dark hair and he glanced over, only to get a very close view of Castiel's face peering intently at his. "Cas? What are you looking at?"

"You have freckles."

Dean's hand was already halfway up to his face as though to brush them off before he realized it and let it drop. "Yeah, so?"

"I have never noticed them before." Castiel was, if anything, closer, his nose nearly touching Dean's cheek. "How is it I've never noticed them?"

"Um." Dean felt himself going cross-eyed as he continued to try and watch Castiel's intent observation. "Hell if I know. They usually only show up in the summer."

"They're fascinating."

Dean closed his eyes. "Cas, stop - stop stroking my face."

"You even have them on your ears."

"Cas." The problem was, he didn't sound very insistent. The angel's inquisitive fingers were surprisingly gentle, leaving a silk-soft trail of remembered touch behind them as they played over his earlobe. The hairs at the back of his neck stood up as he sensed more than felt Castiel switch sides to investigate the other ear.

You could kiss him right now.

The thought came unbidden, unannounced, suddenly looming large in his cerebrum like an enormous echo. Dean's eyes flew open and he took a step back, raising his hands to ward off Castiel's attentions. "Woah. Okay. That's enough of that."

He wasn't sure whether he was addressing Castiel or himself, but either way, he felt a vague disappointment that he turned all his attentions to denying as he yanked open the door of the Impala.


	2. Shoes

Home was where you could take your shoes off.

Dean didn't like having his shoes off; it made him anxious. Since his first pair of steel-toed boots at the age of ten, he'd even slept in his shoes. Lisa had often teased him - "take your shoes off and stay awhile" - but even then, something deep within him, nestled within his spine, told him that he should be prepared to run. The shoes stayed on. He didn't want to run. He just wanted to be ready.

It was evident in his laces - stiff, kinked where the knot was, making the laces curl in strange ways in the rare moments they were untied. There was a decent amount of mud crusting up those laces. Blood, too - probably all manner of other unsavory things that a spray with a hose couldn't remove, and would remain until the shoes or the laces wore out - whichever came first.

Those shoes were by the door right now. They'd been by the door since just before dark last night - had had time to grow cold. They weredownstairs, and he was upstairs. With bare feet. He still wore jeans and a t-shirt - some habits were damn near impossible to break - but the foot that stuck out from under the sheets had nothing between it and the cool morning air wafting in through the window.

The other foot was lazily nudging against Castiel's calf. Not to wake him up, though he was beginning to stir, but more as reassurance that he was still there. One sleepy blue eye fluttered open and met Dean's in a groggy smile. Dean returned it, and shifted closer to feel Castiel's body heat radiate under the sheets. At the moment, he couldn't think of anything that could make him run away from this.

Home was where you could take your shoes off.


	3. Marks

Castiel looked up from his book as Dean walked in, brow furrowing as the other man winced while taking off his coat. "Dean? Are you hurt?"

"Hm? No. Smarts a bit." Dean rolled his shoulder experimentally. "That'll wear off soon."

Closing his book and setting it to the side, Castiel turned his full attention to Dean. "What did you do this time?" he asked wearily.

"Well," Dean said slowly as he began rolling his sleeve up. "You said the handprint was fading because it was your Grace keeping it there before." The skin of his shoulder was red and swollen and looked remarkably tender, but Castiel's breath caught as his eyes took in what was there. "I've gotten kind of attached to it. So I just came from the tattoo parlor."

Castiel rose from his chair, crossing the room as though in a dream. Eyes fixated on Dean's shoulder, he lifted his own hand to place it gently over the perfect replica of the mark that had stood, livid and red, for so many years upon Dean's shoulder. Dean flinched slightly at the touch, but the self-satisfied gleam never left his eyes.

It was clearly difficult for Castiel to tear his eyes from Dean's shoulder, but when he did, it was to turn the full force of his gaze upon Dean's face. "You. Bedroom. Now."

Castiel had always been succinct.


	4. Thirty Years of Photographs

Dean's shoulder stiffens when bad weather is coming; sometimes it's so bad he doesn't do much other than sit on a kitchen chair - anything softer hurts his back - and roll it on occasion. Really, when Castiel stops to consider it, Dean's entire body probably aches when the weather changes, and the shoulder is just something he can isolate from everything else. It's no use limping when both knees hurt, after all.

It sometimes surprises Castiel, because he didn't see the changes happening - but when he compares Dean now to the Dean of thirty years ago, it is startling. His hair is a mosaic of gray peppered with his original dark brown; there is a decided slump to his posture; even his voice has aged, though only to become richer and warmer with time. And when Castiel looks in the mirror, he's sometimes surprised to see the face looking back at him, as well. Growing old was not something he'd ever considered.

There is a pressure front moving in this morning. Castiel can tell as soon as Dean shifts and groans slightly as he reaches for the glasses on the bedside table. "Damn shoulder."

"Wimp." Castiel reaches over to press a thumb to Dean's aching muscles, the same way Dean used to do for him, long ago when his shoulders ached from holding wings that were no longer there. "You should have taken better care of yourself."

Dean smirks. "Didn't think I'd live this long." He winces and rolls his shoulder away. Castiel relents; sometimes the stiffness won't yield to anything but time.

It doesn't yield, this time. The ache spreads down Dean's left arm throughout the day, despite the mild spring outside. And even though all the television commercials for aspirin say that it saves lives, it fails today.

Castiel had never considered growing old, but he'd accepted it as a thing that would happen. Perhaps in time he'd accept growing old alone, with only thirty years of photographs to remind him of who he'd intended to grow old with.


	5. Grace

_(Happy Fourth of July. Have an extra ficlet on me.)_

* * *

It took them several days to decompress after the final battle for Heaven.

With wordless consent they had turned the dash of the Impala westward and driven, stopping only for gas and food, switching drivers wherever necessary, until they were so far up in the mountains that their cell phones were no more than useless bricks. It took a little doing, but they found the cabin that Sam remembered staying in once years ago, a share and share alike shelter that Hunters could use when passing through. It was ramshackle, perhaps, but it was everything the three of them needed at the moment.

The lake was small enough to barely deserve the name, a tiny stream-fed thing originating from glaciers with water clear enough to see nearly straight to the bottom of. Even in the heart of summer it was freezing, and Dean protested quietly when Cas shook him awake one night with a gleam in his eye - and protested more loudly when Cas led him by the hand to the tiny dock that jutted into the lake.

"No, it's freezing and fish have sex in that water."

Cas overcame Dean's reluctance by simply picking him up and tossing him in.

Sputtering and gasping from the cold, Dean did his best to glare up at Cas on the dock, but the vision of him laughing in the moonlight - a real belly laugh, not just an amused smirk or chuckling exhalation - was enough to ignite that enormous feeling in his chest that often threatened to engulf his entire consciousness, to seize his mouth and make him say ridiculous things that couldn't possibly be repeated back to him in turn.

So he did the only logical thing he could do: he swam up to the dock, pulled himself enough out of the water for proper leverage, and then pulled Cas into the lake with him.

It was as they sat in their sodden clothes, hair still dripping, that Dean looked over at Cas and knew that this was as good a time as any to unbutton his shirt pocket and draw out the crystal phial.

"Cas."

Cas ceased his study of the gibbous moon and looked to Dean, his eyes dropping to the phial and widening. His breath caught in a sharp draw inward, almost voiced with a note of longing.

"I made a little detour. It is yours, right?"

Cas nodded slightly, hand raising slowly as though he didn't know he was doing it. Dean clenched his jaw and placed the phial into Cas's hand, closing his fingers around it.

"I know it's been rough. And I...haven't gone out of my way to make it any easier for you." Dean couldn't watch Cas's face as he studied the gentle blue incandescence; it was painful. He switched his gaze to the moon instead. "We didn't leave that much Heaven intact. But, I guess if you've got to start over...best not bite off more than you can chew."

Cas was very still and silent next to him. The quiet nearly begged to be filled.

"Ever since I've known you...you just wanted to fix Heaven. Fix your home. I never understood until I - until I saw what it had come to a couple days ago." Dean nodded - more to himself than to Cas, who Dean couldn't even confirm was still listening. "You can start from scratch, now. Nobody around to stop you." He swallowed. "Sam won't. And neither - neither will I." He took a deep, shaky breath. "I'll miss you, though."

He had exhausted his ability to speak; the words he'd never been able to say burned at the roof of his mouth, but he couldn't force them out. _I love you. Stay._ The moon grew hazy as he let his vision slip out of focus in an effort to stem the sudden prick of tears at the corners of his eyes.

If it had not been so quiet, he wouldn't have heard the tiny_ plunk_ some five yards in front of them. He didn't see what made the noise, but the azure glow sinking through the dark crystal water was unmistakable. Shock stealing what words he'd had left, Dean snapped his head to the side to stare at Cas, eyes wide.

Cas looked utterly calm as he watched his Grace sink to the frigid depths of the lake too small to have a proper name. When it was no longer visible, he looked to the side and locked eyes with Dean, the tiniest hint of a smile playing about his lips.

"I'd have missed you too."


	6. So It Goes

Cas wasn't a stranger to pain or blood; one really couldn't be when one's closest companions were the Winchesters. So, knowing he was down for the count, he dragged himself to the side, out of the way, and rode the spiking waves of pain that waxed and waned, pressing his hand against the gash across his leg.

Even with the pressure, the bloodstain beneath his palm was growing at an alarming rate; he didn't dare move his hand to assess the damage but his mind raced as it named all the blood vessels of the upper leg. Most of them were deep but that knife had been sharp and the thrust behind it very strong…

"Cas!" Dean was kneeling beside him, barely controlled panic in his eyes. "You do not look good. Sam. Belt. Now."

Cas was surprised to find that he was having trouble focusing his eyes; everything seemed so clear inside his mind. He opened his mouth but the words he wanted to say couldn't make it to his tongue.

"Don't talk," Sam said intently, winding his belt around the top of Cas's thigh. "This'll hurt."

And it did - distantly, as though it was happening to someone else. Dean was pulling the strap of leather as tightly as it would go and it kept slipping on the blood-soaked denim, unable to find the purchase to deliver the pressure it was meant to.

It occurred to Cas that he was probably dying. He wasn't technically a stranger to that, either, but knowing that it was happening was a new experience - it had always been a rather sudden occurrence before.

"It won't stop." Sam sounded panicked.

"Like hell it won't." Dean grunted and pulled harder on the makeshift tourniquet. "You still with me, Cas?" He reached up to grasp at Cas's hand. Cas grounded himself in the sensation, using it as an anchor to keep him connected to what was happening, to deny the clouds of ink at the edge of his vision.

"Get under his arms." Dean's voice sounded like it was coming from very far away. "We gotta get him to the car."

"Dean." It was so hard, harder than it should have been, to force the name from his mouth. He felt more than saw the motion around him pause, Dean looking up with the worry plain in his eyes. "I'm sorry."

The smile that Dean forced to his face was torturous to behold. "Nothing to be sorry about, Cas. We all get bloodied up now and again -"

"No. That I… never said." In a distant drone, Cas could hear Sam speaking - an ambulance, the portion of his brain that was still working supplied,he's calling an ambulance. "I love you."

His eyes. That's where Cas could see everything begin to break down - not the way his smile slid from his face as his jaw went slack or the way Dean's hand gripped his more tightly. It was in his eyes.

It had always been in his eyes.

A split second later, Dean had regained what composure he could. "We'll - we'll have to talk about that later. Because I -" Dean swallowed and shook his head fiercely. "There _is_ going to be a later," he said forcefully, determination giving his voice a backbone of steel. "Stay with me, Cas, you hear me? There's an ambulance coming, and they'll - they'll fix you up shiny and new. You won't even have to bleed on my car."

Cas was only catching one word in three; things were taking a long time to process. It was like the old days, years ago, when he could stretch or condense his sense of time at will, except it was happening on its own and his sensory input couldn't keep up -

He felt Dean squeeze his hand again. It felt different; Cas looked down and brought all his effort to bear on focusing his eyes. Dean had both hands firmly clasped around one of his, and he was saying…something.

"…you too, you son of a bitch. There. I said it. Are you happy?"

"Yes," Cas said.

Or thought he said.

He could follow the thought in his mind down the neurons to his muscles, but he wasn't altogether sure the command continued past that. He tried again, but became distracted by how dark it had become - Dean was a darker shadow against dim lights

an ache stabbed somewhere

"Cas, you can't. You can't just leave."

gasping did nothing his limbs were heavy

"Cas!"

the room spun lazy circles eyes closed against the mayhem

"Cas…please…"

stillness…except

"I still need you."


	7. Touch

Dean paused at Castiel's bedroom door. As usual, it wasn't closed; Castiel did not seem to understand the need for privacy. Dean rapped a knuckle on it anyway.

"You're wasting your time."

"Mine to waste," Dean replied, shrugging. He crossed the short distance to the foot of the bed and lowered himself onto it; the bed was narrow enough that after the mattress settled, his hip pressed against Castiel's. He decided to ignore that rather than shift away. "Tell me what's eating you, Cas. You don't just up and explode like that unless there's a reason."

Castiel stared at his hands for the space of several breaths. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to shout at you."

"It's the coffeemaker you should be apologizing to. I've never heard such verbal abuse." Dean was rewarded with the slightest shadow of a smile that disappeared almost as soon as he saw it. "You're not pissed at the coffeemaker. Or at me. But you're pissed at something. Tell me what, and I'll go shoot it for you."

Another dim smile, this one lingering for almost a full heartbeat. "Frustrated would be a better word for it." Castiel held out a hand and watched it for a moment before placing it on the edge of a chair. "Even at my lowest low - so drained of everything angelic about me that I was nearly human - I could still touch this chair and know the tree it came from. Trace the tree back to the acorn it once was, follow every drop of water that ever nourished it back to their memory of clouds." He tapped the chair. "It just feels like a chair."

Dean licked his lips. "If it's any consolation, I doubt that chair was ever a tree. It's from Ikea."

This time Castiel didn't smile. "I used to be able to experience God's creation to its fullest extent possible. That's only an example of how it felt, one that you might be able to understand." His eyes grew distant. "I never thought I'd miss that immersion. I never thought it would be something that I would never have again. This -" he gestured at himself - "is like being wrapped in cotton and sealing wax and left in a dark room. Even when I've stubbed my toe or pulled a muscle or burned my tongue with coffee - it's like I can't feel anything." He lowered his hand to join with his other, fingers laced, and he dropped his eyes to them as well. "Sometimes I think I'll never feel anything vividly again."

"Hey." Dean settled an arm across Castiel's shoulders in a half-hug. "You feel that?"

Castiel nodded.

Dean gave Castiel's upper arm a squeeze. "How about that?" He didn't wait for a response; instead he leaned forward to try and catch Castiel's downcast eyes. "The life history of a chair isn't important. Not to humans. But if I do this -" he pulled Castiel against him in another hug - "You feel that. Somewhere in your gut you can sense that I'm trying to make you feel better. That's important. That's what humans use touch for."

"It isn't quite the same," Castiel said, but most of the bitter notes had drained from his voice. He raised his eyes from his hands and met Dean's with a melancholy half-smile. "But it'll do."


	8. Breakdown

No matter what he did, he couldn't scrub it away.

Dean was sick of blood - everything he owned had its stains, yellowed brownish swaths of them like bruises, some of it his own, and the warm water of the shower just felt like more falling from the sky to slough down his skin and stain that, too.

Frantic, he yanked the tap all the way into the blue, desperate to fend off the feverish hallucination, and the frigid water did some of it, but in his haste his heel swiveled and he lost his balance, landing on the ceramic floor of the bathtub with a hollow _THUNK_.

"Dean?"

Dean didn't answer; the cold droplets felt like tiny daggers on his too-hot skin and he curled around himself, trying to minimize the damage they would do, knowing that if he didn't move he would be flayed alive but unable to fathom what his muscles should do to accomplish that.

"Dean!"

There was a pounding at the bathroom door; it reverberated through the tiny motel bathroom like thunder. It opened after a moment, and the shower curtain was ripped to the side.

Some small portion of Dean's mind that wasn't gripped by the fever knew what he must look like, huddled and shivering in the corner of the bathtub, a pathetic mess. He didn't want Cas to see him this way. Helplessly he hid his face in the folds of his arms.

The water stopped its incessant torture, and a warm hand laid itself on Dean's back, feeling almost painful against the gooseflesh there. Dean flinched away from the touch, and he could sense the surprise and hurt that the motion caused, though the hand stayed steady.

"Let's get you back to bed. Can you stand?"

The sheets were cold; not nearly as cold as the shower, but cold enough, and Dean couldn't stop a whimper as Cas pulled them up around him. Without hesitation, he could feel Cas climb into the bed next to him, and as he gathered Dean into his arms Dean could feel the concern thrumming along with Cas's heartbeat as their chests pressed together.


	9. Safe

Very suddenly and startlingly awake, Dean reached for the knife on his nightstand before his eyes were even fully open, scissoring his legs to get out from under the blankets and his feet under him.

"I'm sorry!" came a familiar voice, sounding horrified, and because Dean had never heard this voice in this context it took his sleep-sluggish mind a moment to place it.

He huffed a large, relieved sigh and threw the knife back to the table. "Cas. Don't - don't _do_ that."

In the dark, Dean could only barely see Cas holding up his hands sheepishly. "Sorry. I...had a dream. And I needed to make sure you were all right."

The adrenaline rushing through Dean's body was starting to go sour with its uselessness, and he sat back on the bed, still shaking slightly. "First time you ever had a nightmare?"

"It was remarkably vivid. I thought...but no." Cas shook his head, intertwining his fingers and staring at them.

"Thought what?"

"I thought maybe it was a vision. That I hadn't lost everything, after all." Cas shrugged, not lifting his eyes. "I used to get them, you know. When you or Sam were in danger. Like a wordless prayer. You probably didn't even know you were sending them."

Dean hadn't. A lot of near misses suddenly made a lot more sense. He looked at Cas again - really looked at him. Shoulders held back, with plenty of space between himself at the dresser behind him; Cas still had the spatial awareness of his wings, still held himself as though they were something he needed to support. The distracted expression, as though he were listening for something that wasn't there but should be.

It had been weeks. To Dean, it seemed like a lifetime, but to someone who could recount the march of eons...Cas had Fallen practically yesterday.

Something twinged deep inside his chest, and he patted the bed next to him. "C'mere." Confused, Cas moved slowly around the foot of the bed to take the proffered space, and flinched slightly when Dean put his arm around him. "You're a bit old for it, but..." Dean could feel a blush working its way up his cheeks, and he was grateful for the darkness to hide it. "When Sammy would have nightmares, I'd get him a glass of water and tuck him into my bed and tell him stories until he fell back asleep. When he was little," he clarified. "I mean, they were identical beds in a shitty motel, but for some reason being in mine made him feel better." He shrugged, starting to feel foolish. "I dunno, I -"

"I'd like that," Cas said in a small voice.

Mouth suddenly dry for no reason, Dean stood, freeing the blankets so Cas could slide under them. The glass at the bathroom sink was reasonably clean, and Cas didn't drink more than a sip from it anyway before placing it carefully next to the knife on the bedside table.

"What was it about?" Dean asked, somehow feeling out of place as he sat down on the other side of the bed.

Cas was quiet for a moment before he answered. "I couldn't save you," he said simply.

Dean waited for more, but nothing else came. "Oh," he said finally.

The faint sound of the refrigerator humming to life gave a low background to their silence. Dean cleared his throat. "So which story do you want to hear? I do all the voices for the three little pigs."

"Just you being here is enough." Cas's voice was starting to grow thick with sleep, and he pulled a blanket up more tightly over his shoulder. "Think I understand Sam now."

"Hm?"

"This is where safety sleeps."

While Dean was trying to figure out what to say to that, he could hear Cas's breathing become deep and even. Idly, he wondered if he should go sleep in Cas's bed down the hall, now that this one was occupied.

No, he decided, surprising himself with the honesty of it. No. The idea of Cas being near as he fell asleep touched a small thrill in his stomach, a tiny spark to add to the growing collection that he would have to examine sooner or later.

Besides, he'd slept on the bed that was in Cas's room, and it didn't hold a candle to his memory foam.

Moving slowly to avoid waking the man on the other side of the bed, Dean slipped under the blankets and rested his head on the pillow. It felt strange, having the blankets drape over another form before they draped over his.

It felt nice.

His musing was starting to dissolve into the senseless continuum of nonsense when Cas turned over, arm falling over Dean's shoulders and jolting him awake again. Dean nearly said something, nearly got out of bed to go down to Cas's room, but then Cas pulled Dean close.

"Keep you safe," Cas murmured, and he sounded so content that Dean didn't have the heart - nor, he admitted, the inclination - to break away.

He closed his eyes again, feeling Cas's chest rise and fall against his back, and was surprised to find that as slumber stole over him like warm water, he did feel safe.


	10. Simple Truth

The fog on the mirror was a thick velvety frost; Cas wiped it away, but the steam in the bathroom obscured the trails his fingers made nearly as soon as they left the glass. Cas left it; he liked the indistinct impression of his reflection, a dark blur among the white. He hummed softly to himself as he carded his fingers through his hair, longer now than it had been when he Fell, prone to unruliness and sometimes ringlets at the back of his neck as it dried. Dean had flicked at these once, making some remark about mullets and finding a barber, but by the way Dean had looked pointedly at Sam at the latter half of the statement, Cas suspected that the remark had not been entirely for him.

Cas liked showers. He liked standing with his eyes closed under the hot spray, as hot as he could make it, mentally following the sensation of the water pounding at the crown of his head, joining in rivulets running down his back and legs before joining the pool at his feet. He liked the pink flush of his skin as he stepped out. He liked the plush of the fresh towel as he pressed it to his face, deeply inhaling the scent of fresh linen. He liked letting the water drip off him in the steamy bathroom, listening to his tuneless humming bounce off the tiles in a belated answering echo.

At night, while the boys were asleep, he would indulge himself in all the hot water the Bunker's prodigious water heater would allow, sometimes letting the water run out entirely just for the sensation of standing under the freezing cascade with goosebumps and shallow gasps for the few seconds he could bear it before jumping out. On occasion he would turn the showerhead to its massage setting and let it beat at his shoulders, where the muscles that remembered wings ached with the loss.

Dean was awake when Cas wandered into the kitchen in his bathrobe, hair beginning to drip again despite its vigorous rub with a towel. "If we had a water bill, I'd yell at you," Dean said before lifting the bottle of beer to his lips.

Cas had tried to explain to Dean about showers, but Dean already knew too much about showers. They were dull, matter-of-fact, a chore to fit in between sleeps. Showers were so indoctrinated into Dean's life that he'd never had the wonder of discovery. Cas had once suggested that they take a shower together so he could better explain, not realizing that he was breaking dozens of taboos - masculinity, nakedness, sexuality, and countless others that were so easy to list but difficult to fathom or explain - and he had since given up trying to explain.

Instead, Cas merely shrugged. "I like showers," he said simply. It was a simple truth, after all, and since being human was a maze of convoluted truths twined about themselves in a tangled mass, the simple truths were worth stating, because they could be.

Dean shrugged in response; Cas watched his shoulders rise and fall beneath the cotton of his shirt. "Whatever floats your boat. 'Night." He left the kitchen and Cas turned to watch him go, disappearing around the corner into the hallway that led to the bedrooms.

Now that was a complicated truth, one that transcended words. Cas had never had occasion to form a sexual identity; in an angel's true form it was irrelevant, and within a vessel such a thing would have been distracting. But so many sparks were falling amongst the tinder and smoldering that Cas did not have to smell the smoke to know the truth: Cas liked Dean.

What should have been a simple truth grew more complicated every time he tried to do something about it; it caught at his tongue whenever he tried to say anything, gripped at his chest whenever he tried to act. And so it remained buried, smoldering in hot tendrils, ready to burst into flame at the slightest provocation - and Cas didn't have the faintest idea of what he might do when it did.

Best to just stick to the simple truths, then, and leave untangling the difficult truths to the ones who had been human for longer than he. Maybe someday he would understand showers too well, and then he could tackle the tempest that rose within him when he looked at Dean, the complicated truth made easier by its layered simple truths that he finally understood.

Cas liked showers. For now, that was good enough.


	11. Time

The problem, when one really got down to it, was that of time.

Castiel could not manipulate time, per se. No angel could. Time itself was a dimension like any other. But he could alter his experience of time, or the experience of others in time. Or he could move himself or others within that dimension. There was a lot that he could do in respect to time, which was advantageous, given that he had lived for eons and, to be frank, there was a lot of boredom during those eons that he would rather not experience to the fullest. Humans made a very large fuss about the Cambrian Explosion, but unless one observed it very quickly, it was just a lot of many-legged bugs wandering about and fighting and dying. The fossils were more exciting than the event itself.

If he knew that a certain event was going to take an inordinate amount of time, he'd change his perception of time - the experience of centuries could be compacted into moments. He had idly done the math once and was surprised to discover that in subjective time, he'd only lived a little over three thousand years, though he could of course perfectly remember the march of millennia.

Perhaps if Dean knew that, since the first moment of their meeting, he had not once altered his perception of time when he'd been in Dean's presence - that it had been a conscious choice to live every moment just as Dean did, both painful and joyous - and that he increased his observation of time tenfold when he was not there. Or if Dean knew that fully one third of his attention was always trained on the Winchesters, wherever they were. Or if Castiel finally admitted that keeping his "ears on" meant a steady drain on his Grace that he did not dare cease for fear of missing one single whispered prayer.

Perhaps if he could only make Dean see that just because he wasn't present didn't mean he was _gone_, Dean would forgive him.


	12. Like Petrichor

It took Castiel a long time to isolate exactly what it was that Dean smelled like. There was the definite undertone of old leather, of course, dusky and smooth. There was the ever-changing note of motel soap and shampoo and laundry detergent. Hints of whiskey came and went with a sharp tang. But all of these were superficial, almost a distraction, overlying the dark brown musky velvet that was Dean himself. Like petrichor, it was an aroma all its own that, to Castiel, was unmistakable and ineffable.

It evoked a reaction in him that also took a long time for Castiel to identify. It wasn't until very late one night, after sharing a six pack in front of a horrible movie, that their eyes caught in an undeniable way and all caution had been thrown to the wind; Dean cupped his hand on Castiel's cheek and brought him roughly close and Castiel had instinctively responded, curling his fingers in the short hairs at the back of Dean's neck; against Dean's warm and chapped lips Castiel finally found that whatever Dean's scent could be called, he just wanted to take his clothes off and roll around in it.

Judging by the way Dean paused their feverish ministrations to stand and lead Castiel firmly by the hand to his bedroom, with frequent interruptions along the way to press him against the wall and continue his concupiscent attentions, Dean seemed to approve of his plan.


	13. Piece of the Moon

The rain was filtering down through the dregs of the stubborn icy slush of the last snowstorm, turning the world a sodden gray that perfectly reflected Cas's current emotional state - although some threatening rumbles of thunder wouldn't have gone amiss.

"It's important to me," he said in a low voice, almost a growl, as he strode over to the passenger door of the car to wait for Dean to unlock it.

But Dean didn't. He squared his shoulders, obviously annoyed, and crossed his arms, ignoring the icy rain as it battered a steady staccato on the hood of the car. "Why? Why is it so damn important to you that we do something? I ignore it. Always have. It's just marking time. It's nothing special."

If Dean was using this tactic to shorten the argument, it wasn't going to work. Cas was far more practiced in ignoring stimuli like temperature. "It is. It's the day you were _born_, Dean. Which, as far as I'm concerned, makes it to the highlight reel in my abbreviated history of the world."

"I refuse to fight about this again," Dean said forcefully, shaking his head. "I don't _want_ anything. I don't want to_ do_ anything. I want it to be just another day like any other, because it is. It's not special. _I'm_ not special, whatever you seem to think."

The knot of frustration that had been tightening in Cas's chest since they'd woken up this morning snapped, and two steps brought him chest-to-chest with Dean, nearly touching, the uneven ground beneath their feet working in his favor to bring him to eye level. "Don't ever say that. Ever. The _stars_ applauded the day you were born. I was _there_. Do you know how long I waited for you, without even knowing what I was waiting for? Do you know what it felt like when I first laid eyes on you, there in Hell, and _knew_?"

Dean's jaw had dropped slightly in surprise; he took a breath as though to say something, but Cas barreled on. "Forget the grand schemes of Heaven and Hell and Earth - you are the single shining beacon in my life, and I swear I will bring you a piece of the moon if only it would make you see that, if only it would make you happy for one thin sliver of a moment."

The frigid rain had begun to plaster Dean's hair to his head. Cas knew he couldn't look much better, suppressing a shiver as a trickle of water stole down the back of his neck. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes as he exhaled. "I'm - _we're_ - mortal. I have a finite number of opportunities to make you smile. I'm not going to waste them."

Dean licked his lips, eyes now soft and devoid of the hard shell of self-defense he'd been wearing all morning. "Cas. I woke up this morning. You were there. If I'm lucky, it'll happen tomorrow, too. That's all I want. To keep waking up. You to be there. Sammy in the next room. Everyone still alive and whole." He reached up to push the wet hair from his forehead. "The odds are against me. Any day I beat 'em…that's a good day."

They had reached the part of the argument where anything else said would ruin whatever fragile truce they'd come to, so Cas remained silent while Dean reached behind him with the keys and unlocked the car door. The silence congealed around them as Dean turned the engine over, and by the time they were merging onto the freeway, it was palpably thick, and Cas didn't know how to break it.

Dean cleared his throat hesitantly. "If…if you wanted to take me to that little Greek place. The one we went to on our first date." He swallowed. "That'd be okay." He looked over, eyebrows raised. "But no singing 'Happy Birthday.'"

Cas exhaled sharply in what could almost be a relieved laugh. "Fair enough."

The rain was still falling, and the skies were still gray and flat, but they were inside and sheltered from it, the heat from the vents slowly thawing them. Cas found that strangely fitting to his mood, too, and no longer wished for thunder.


	14. Warrior

It sits in a polished box of maple on a shelf next to Cas's bed.

The boys don't know that Cas has it. They probably don't even know that it is missing from the pile of crates they have been cataloging. But while Dean is teaching him the finer points of shooting a gun, Cas thinks about it. When Sam tosses him to the mat to teach him safe falling techniques, he is thinking about it.

And in the rare moments when the boys are both asleep or out getting groceries or otherwise occupied, he practices the ancient forms, training his muscles to follow the motions he has locked in his memory from ages long past.

And so, when Dean hands him a gun and matter-of-factly says that Cas gets to ride shotgun on this case, Cas hands the gun back.

"I won't be using that."

Dean's eyebrows fly up in surprise. "You're not a bad shot. I was just heckling you the other day."

"No. I mean I have something of my own."

And then he has no choice but to fetch the maple box and bring it to the library, where Sam and Dean wait with baffled expressions as he undoes the brass clasps and pulls out the black wooden saya.

Sam is the first to speak. "A sword?"

Cas nods. "A special one." He holds the sword so Sam and Dean could see the single sigil engraved upon the rounded crosspiece.

Dean leans forward, squinting. "Is that - Enochian?"

"Yes." Cas hesitates. "It…says 'cas.'"

There is a weighty pause. "And…why do you have a thousand-year-old Japanese sword with your name on it?" Dean asks finally.

"It isn't," Cas says quickly. "My name," he clarifies when both Dean and Sam look bewildered. "'Cas' means…aegis. Protector. Shield." He shifts his feet uncomfortably. "My name used to mean 'Shield of God.'" Shaking his head to dispel that thought, he draws the sword carefully. "This sword…it was granted by an angel to a man who dearly wanted to protect something. His family, or his village, maybe."

"Wait. Angels were sticking their fingers in Japanese pies?" Dean asks.

Cas shoots him a patient look. "If an angel hears a particularly moving prayer, he is not going to limit himself by religious symbolism," he says quietly. "Religion was created by man. Prayers are universal." He turns the sword so the ripples in the blade caught the light. "Only true samurai could wear katanas, but a wakizashi such as this would be short enough to be worn by the lower classes." He slides it carefully back into the saya and begins to tie it to his belt.

Sam clears his throat. "Um. No offense, Cas, but bringing a knife to a gunfight is…actually a well-known idiom."

"Yes," Cas agrees dimly. "It means being comically unaware of the disparity between modes of weaponry. It doesn't stop you and Dean from carrying two dozen knives between you."

"Yeah, but not a sword," Dean points out. "Do you even know how to use that thing?"

Cas completes the final knot that secures the saya and takes a step back, well out of the way of the boys. "Toss me that apple core."

Bemused, Dean plucks the apple core from the table, considers it for a moment, and then lobs it slowly in Cas's general direction.

In one single, swift motion, Cas draws the sword in an upward arc from its saya, and the two halves of the apple core fly off in opposite directions. It is difficult to hide the gratification Cas feels at watching the dumbfounded expressions on Sam and Dean's faces as he calmly wipes the flat of the blade on his jeans before resheathing the sword. "The way I see it, beheading something is just as effective as shooting it. And, considering the types of things we fight, probably more so."

Sam apparently regains the power of speech before his brother. "And…when did you learn to do that?"

With a small smile, Cas taps his temple with his finger. "Everything you've been teaching me is already up here. I just…have to get used to telling a body how to do it. Without cheating, like I could with a vessel." He chuckles at Dean's dubious expression. "I was a warrior, Dean. In every sense of the word. I led a garrison of hundreds. I was intimately familiar with every fighting style of every culture that has ever existed."

"Even Klingon?" Dean asks after a beat.

Cas smirks. "If you can find me a Bat'leth -"

"I'm pretty sure Charlie has one."

Shaking his head in amusement, Cas lays one hand over the sword at his waist. "Assuming you approve…I understand there is a den of ghouls three states over that need taking care of?"

Dean still looks slightly overwhelmed as he stares at Cas, as though noticing him for the first time. "Yeah," he says after a very long silence, shoving his hands in his pockets. "It's cool. Let's go. Daylight's burning."

"You know, I think I'm going to sit this one out," Sam says casually, pulling out a chair. "I think you two have got this, and I'd like to try and dig up some information on that sword."

To Cas's surprise, Dean doesn't object, merely shrugs. "Fine. Just you and me, Cas. Meet you at the car." He turns and strides out of the library. Cas begins to follow, but Sam grabs at his arm.

"He was totally hiding a boner just then," Sam says, determinedly looking everywhere but at Cas. "Make the most of this trip, all right?"

Cas supposed it was only fair that he be suspended in astonishment this morning, as well.


	15. Purgatory

The most miserable part of Purgatory hadn't been the constant feeling of being pursued. It hadn't been the weary sensation of wanting to sleep, but not being able - souls didn't sleep, after all, and the best Dean had ever been able to manage had been a fitful doze.

The most miserable part of Purgatory had been the four-month stretch during which it had rained - and hadn't _stopped_.

The trees had kept it off for a short interval, but then the leaves began shedding the water in rivulets. It soaked through every layer Dean had, running down his back like icy fingernails, settling in his shoes and making his sodden socks rub and chafe with every step.

Cas had the look of a drowned rat about him, his too-large overcoat hanging about his frame in dark wet folds that stuck to each other and gave the angel a shrunken, wrinkled appearance. Already recalcitrant, the subtle but ever infringing trial of never being dry made him even more withdrawn and practically mute.

Benny would joke about dissolving, but the jests more and more frequently earned him dark looks, until finally they all stopped speaking altogether.

Strange, then, how one of Dean's clearest memories of Cas was the quiet resignation on his face as he stamped out one of their infrequent, anemic fires, droplets swinging from his bangs with the motion, and then the blue eyes glancing up to catch at Dean's in a silent moment of shared -

Something.


	16. A Promise

Cas seems nervous tonight.

He covers it well, but Dean has seen every corner of him, examined every minute shade of his moods, and he is nervous. It's in the way he keeps sipping at his water during the meal, the way he stands up from his chair when they are done.

They're walking to the car when Cas slips his hand into Dean's. Dean glances over in mild surprise; Cas is not much one for public displays of affection. The smile that Cas returns is a little flustered.

"Okay, what's up?" Dean asks, stopping them on the sidewalk.

"Nothing," Cas says innocently. Too innocently. Dean snorts.

"I don't believe you."

"Really," Cas insists. "Let's just - let's keep walking. It's a nice night."

And that is more suspicious than anything else; not that Cas wants to keep walking, because it is a nice night, but that he would suggest it as if it were something they wouldn't normally do anyway. And he's still holding Dean's hand. Dean raises an eyebrow and decides to go with it.

He expects Cas to stay silent. The silences between them have never been uncomfortable; they had always felt like a tiny world of their own, an envelope in the world of chaos that they alone shared. So Dean is surprised again when Cas suddenly takes a breath.

"I swear I've done research," he says, pausing by the railing of a riverside scenic point on the opposite side of an ice cream shop, windows dark as it waited for tomorrow. "And this is supposed to be done someplace significant." He swallows, and Dean's suspicion at Cas's behavior is replaced by a strange, unreal sensation of entering into an important moment. "But - well, everywhere I've gone with you has been significant. Because it's been with you." Cas turned to look at their surroundings. "This is a good place, though."

Dean licked his lips. "I accidentally said I loved you here."

The nervous grin on Cas's face lit it up like the sun emerging from behind a cloud. "I know. Right at this spot." The smile didn't disappear, exactly, but it became slightly stiffer as whatever was making Cas nervous returned to his thoughts. "I wouldn't ever ask this of you if I didn't mean it," he said suddenly, and now the smile was gone entirely, Cas looked very seriously into Dean's face, chin tilted up slightly. "Really mean it. And - it means a little more than what it sounds like in the traditional words, but there aren't really words for my particular situation."

He grinned again, with a little exhalation that was meant to be a laugh, and dropped down and knelt on the sidewalk. "I'm also supposed to do this."

Dean blinks, a sudden shot of adrenaline thrumming through him as Cas reached up to take Dean's hand in one of his, the other pulling a box from his pocket. "Holy shit," he blurts without thinking.

Cas laughs, bowing his head and shaking it before lifting his face to look up at Dean again. "Dean. Dean Winchester. I want to spend my life with you. Grow old with you. I assume we'd do that anyway, but - I'd like to promise you that I'll do it." He flips open the top of the box, and Dean can see the glint of metal in it. "Will you marry me?"

Dean cannot hold back the laugh that has been bubbling at the back of his throat since he realized what Cas was about to do, and it bursts from him in such force that he drops to his knees on the sidewalk as well. Or, at least, that's what he hopes it looks like to Cas as he draws a box from his own pocket.

"You beat me to the punch," Dean says, swallowing hard against the tears that have begun to stand in his eyes - from the laughing, he tells himself, not because he's a sentimental sop. "I was gonna ask you when we got to the car." He chuckled as he opened the box. "I even had a little speech. Wasn't as nice as yours, though."

Cas looks at the ring in Dean's box in amazement. "I take it you accept my offer, then?" He looks up, a ridiculous, goofy grin spreading across his face.

"Do you accept mine? Will you marry me?" Dean offers Cas the box.

"Of course."

"Then yes."

Dean doesn't pay attention to the way his knees are beginning to ache against the concrete; he reaches forward and draws Cas against him, opting to press their hearts together in a hug rather than kiss him - for now.

There are still people walking past on the sidewalk; Dean can tell that they are being stared at, comprehension dawning as the onlookers see what they are holding in their hands, and he knows they are drawing smiles from their audience. He shuts his eyes and pulls Cas closer. The words have been said, and now their envelope of quiet isolates them from the world of chaos around them.


	17. Time and Tide

The darkness pressed against them, thick and absolute. Dean swallowed hard, fighting back the claustrophobic feeling of being pressed in on all sides, a feeling only made more potent by the water that was now lapping against his thighs.

"This is it, I guess," Sam said, and his voice echoed strangely through the tiny chamber of the cavern, so that even though Dean was clasping his hand tightly, he wouldn't have been able to tell for certain where Sam was standing.

The flashlights had gone out nearly an hour ago, some two hours after Sam had rounded the corner with the sickly look on his face to tell them that the tide was coming in, and they were trapped. Which, of course, had been exactly what the hydra had wanted when it had dragged them in here in the first place. Their only consolation was that they had wasted the son of a bitch.

Small consolation, now. Dean tightened his grip on Cas's hand next to him, gulping down against the fear that bubbled up in his middle again as another wash of brackish seawater rushed up, raising the level of the water to his chest before settling back down to his waist.

"Any regrets?" he asked to force back the silence.

"None," Sam said firmly, squeezing Dean's hand.

"One, I suppose," Cas said quietly. "I never married you."

Dean snorted. "You as good as."

"I meant to - properly - but then the vampire uprising and that rogue Leviathan and - and Jeff -" Cas's voice caught, and his grip on Dean's hand tightened painfully.

"Hey. Jeff'll be all right. We raised him good." Dean swallowed hard. "Charlie will make sure he grows up right."

"We always said we'd quit," Sam murmured. "But it was always one more job."

"Well, I think it's safe to say that this is our last one." Dean licked his lips as another rush of water gushed around them, the depth now enough to make it difficult to keep his feet on the uneven rock floor.

"I'm ordained," Sam said suddenly.

Dean blinked. "Yeah? I am too. So?"

Sam's answering laugh was perhaps slightly hysterical. "So. Do you, Dean, take Castiel to be your wedded husband, and all that other stuff we probably don't have time for?"

Dean felt his own maniacal laugh rising up inside him, and he couldn't suppress the grin that spread across his face. "Fuck yes."

"And Cas? Do you take Dean as your husband?"

"Of course."

"Then you're married. I say so. Kiss your husband."

Even in the pitch black, it was effortless to find Cas's lips; neither Dean nor Cas let go of Sam's hands as they kissed, for fear of not being able to locate him again, but they wrapped their free arms around each other tightly and desperately as another influx of water sent them all staggering against each other.

They were truly floating, now, their toes only barely scraping the floor of the chamber. Less than a foot of air remained above their heads. Trembling threads of panic began winding through Dean as they braced their hands against the ceiling, still grasping one another tightly, waiting for the last finishing wave.

"I love you, Sammy."

"Love you too, Dean."

"And Cas - you're my everything."

"And you're mine."

"I'll see you two in Heaven. Look me up."

The tide came in.


	18. Academia

Cas is fascinated by universities, these places that people go to devote years of their lives to learning and bettering themselves. Sam tries to tell him that a lot of people are just there because that's what you _do_ after high school, and that it's not some scholastic candyland, but Cas won't be deterred. "The libraries alone, Sam," he insists, "Buildings and databases created for the sole purpose of cataloging human knowledge, making it possible for a person to find the thoughts from someone a hundred years ago, buried in a drawer of microfiche and waiting to be read."

Sam does have to admit that if you look at it that way, it's pretty cool. Which is why, whenever a job takes them to a college or university, he takes Cas along instead of Dean. Not that Dean isn't smart; he's just not _academic_, the way Sam is and Cas clearly wishes he could be. Dean would never understand the longing that Cas and Sam share as they walk purposefully through the brick-paved quads in their faux FBI finery, the desire to sink themselves into months of quiet study - not to identify the latest monster trying to kill them, or decipher a handful of cryptic runes for a banishing spell, but simply for the sake of knowing it.

These are some of the only times Sam feels close to Cas, is able to access that wordless rapport that the fallen angel constantly shares with Dean. And as Cas loosens up, smiles more, and some of the stiffness fades away, Sam can start to understand what Dean sees in him, and why they're willing to forgive one another over and over again.


	19. Chefs Don't Throw Food At Walls

"…Dean? Did you hear me?"

"Yes. I'm trying to picture just how disastrous it will end up being."

"It can't be that difficult. You do it all the time."

"Yes. I know how to cook. You I don't trust with a spoon."

"If you're referring to that incident with the cereal -"

"- more the soup, I forgot the cereal -"

"-I'll remind you that I was new to the whole motor skills thing."

"It was last month."

"I'm a quick learner."

"Fine. You can make us Cheerios."

"No, Dean - I want to cook a real dinner. If have to eat, I want to eat something I've made with my own hands."

"Fine. But I'm supervising you. I don't want you burning down the bunker."

"The bunker is made of concrete."

"If anyone could manage it, it'd be you."

* * *

"Spaghetti. You can probably handle spaghetti."

"Isn't that a bit simplistic?"

"It's a step up from cereal."

"True."

"There's ground beef in the fridge. Left bottom drawer. Go ahead and brown it."

"Brown it?"

"Brown it. For fuck's sake, Cas, don't just stand there looking at me. Get a pan, put it in, and turn the heat on. You've watched me do it a thousand times."

"Seven times. Maybe eight."

"Whatever."

"And it's called browning?"

"It's called browning. Humans don't like E. coli."

"I'm sorry?"

"Never mind."

* * *

"Okay. Now that that's going, get a pot and put some water in it. I trust you know how to boil water?"

"I'm going to spit on your spaghetti."

"Scrumptious. Throw some salt and olive oil in there. No, the - that's canola oil."

"What's a canola?"

"Fuck if I know. Olive oil. Left. Other left. That one."

"How much?"

"Not a lot. Stop. STOP. Dammit, Cas."

"It came out faster than I thought it would."

"Whatever. It won't hurt anything. Just let that sit for a little while. Go stir your beef."

"That could be a double entendre."

"No, it really couldn't."

* * *

"Do you want to tackle a side dish, too?"

"…Maybe? There is broccoli in the vegetable drawer. Broccoli might be nice."

"Nuh uh. That's for Sam. I don't eat green food."

"Even if I cooked it for you?"

"Don't you dare puppy eye me into eating green food."

"I think I'd really like to make broccoli, Dean."

"I'm so whipped, aren't I?"

"It's good for you."

"The broccoli or the whipping?"

"Yes."

* * *

"Okay. Beef is cooked. Go ahead and pour that jar of pasta sauce over it. …Seriously? Here, give it to me."

"Jars are hard."

"Nnnnngh. Give me a spoon. I'll show you a trick."

"Let me try again."

"It's on there too tight, you'll - well, fuck me."

"Later."

"I loosened it up for you. Shit, not - THE JAR, CAS, STOP GIGGLING."

"I'm sure you did. The whole jar?"

"Yeah. And your water is boiling. Go ahead and put the pasta in. WIPE THAT GODDAMN SMIRK OFF YOUR STUPID FACE."

* * *

"How do you know if it's done?"

"You throw a noodle against the wall and see if it sticks."

"…You're just trying to get me to do something stupid so you can laugh at me."

"No, seriously, that's how you do it."

"I'm not throwing noodles at the wall. I'm not that gullible."

"I'm not kidding!"

"Chefs don't throw food against walls."

"Fine, I'll do it."

"…You actually did it."

"I told you."

"You're either going really far to make an ass out of me or humans are just ridiculous."

"The pasta's done, Cas. Strain it and put it in the bowl with the sauce. And put your disgusting green lumps in a bowl too. I'll let Sam know dinner is ready."

* * *

"Don't turn the light out yet."

"Sure. …Dean, you're taking your half out of the middle again."

"I told you. The top side is my side of the bed. I let you sleep on it."

"Someday that might be funny again."

"Shut up, I'm hilarious."

"…Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Was dinner all right?"

"It was good."

"No, I mean…was it all right that I made dinner?"

"…You live here too now, Cas. If cooking makes you happy, then by all means, do it."

"It does if you're there."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Good."

"Go ahead and get the lights."

"Goodnight, Dean."

"Night, Cas."


	20. Mornings

Castiel is fascinated with the freckles on Dean's earlobes.

He likes to nip at them playfully, half astride Dean in the early morning as they are waking up, his breath tickling at the side of Dean's neck. Dean squirms and laughs, a low, sleep-heavy rumble of a chuckle, but he doesn't fight as Castiel's teeth drag across the soft skin.

Dean is not so much fond of Castiel's earlobes as his neck; he knows the exact spot to nuzzle and lazily kiss to make Castiel's muscles turn to warm honey and he lowers himself down, Dean's arms encircling him and with a twist Dean is now astride him, tongue still lapping at that delicious junction of throat and chin.

The alarm clock will not interrupt them for another forty-five minutes. There is a case today, one that requires six hours of driving, but for now they allow themselves a few precious moments outside of time to explore each other in the tiny ways they love.


	21. Showers

They have sex in the shower a lot less frequently than Dean is sure Sam assumes.

It isn't just because the shower is too narrow and slippery to get the right angles - never underestimate the determination of two people in a new relationship who can't keep their hands off one another - or because the capacity of the water heater leaves something to be desired. Nor is it because time and familiarity have put a damper on their ardor.

No. Often, it is a pleasure in itself to watch the water run in rivulets down Cas's back, to reach out and dig his thumbs into that spot between Cas's shoulder blades that makes Cas's head loll forward in something close to bliss. Cas's shoulders are always tight, as though the knots have knots - Cas has told him it's because it's still habit to hold himself as though he has wings - and the combination of the hot water and Dean's hands loosen those knots, even if only a little bit and for a little while.

And then, of course, sometimes Cas will take a palmful of shampoo and run his fingers through Dean's hair, rubbing Dean's scalp with a purposeful concentration that never fails to send warm, lazy thrills through Dean's body. And he keeps massaging as he pulls Dean under the showerhead to rinse, and it makes Dean feel strangely purified by the end of it.

The glowing feeling of being clean is a source of contentment, and as they get dressed, they're usually distracted by warm, shower-soft skin and tousled damp hair and -

They frequently take two showers in the morning.


	22. Done, Part I

Cas didn't know how they had ended up here. The adrenaline was running its sharp tongues through his body and he felt intoxicated in the worst way, as though he was shut into a corner of his mind and was being forced to watch himself say and do the things he'd always locked up before, had kept tightly fettered for years because they were hurtful and toxic and wrong. But they flowed forth now, unchecked and nauseatingly bitter and every single one finding its target.

And Dean? Dean had adopted that sickly sarcastic facade, all bright smiles with edges that could cut nearly as well as his words that were delivered in the coldest, cheerfully sardonic voice he could muster. This was Dean's battle armor, and the more he hurt, the thicker it became. Like a callus. Like a scar. He thought it meant Cas couldn't see the damage he was suffering, when its very presence said more than anything that he was curling around his wounds and lashing out in the most hurtful way he could think of in retaliation. Because like Cas, Dean knew exactly what to say to drive the tiny spines of pain where they twisted the most.

They'd spent so much time learning one another that it was hardly surprising they'd learned the most efficient and brutal ways to hurt each other.

Now, as Cas slammed his duffel onto the bed, they both knew a line had been crossed, some unspoken boundary, a point of no return. Dean's facade flickered for the barest of moments before hardening again, his eyes like agates. "Here. Let me help." With crisp, precise movements, he turned and wrenched a drawer from the dresser, dumping its contents atop the duffel. "Let me make it easy. That's what you want, right? Things to be easy?"

Cas didn't respond. He didn't want this. He didn't want to be shoving the clothes into the duffel with ruthless efficiency, ignoring the shower of flannel and cotton as Dean upended another of the drawers over his hands as he worked. But there was a momentum now, like a swinging pendulum, and he couldn't stop any more than if he'd jumped from a height. He let Dean continue his biting litany, forcing himself to feel every word, every accusation, every dig.

He zipped the duffel with a sense of finality. The sound felt like a seal of permanence, a mousetrap that had snapped and was done. "If you're trying to call my bluff -" His throat felt sore as he said the words, almost a growl, raw from the shouting they'd done earlier.

"Not bluffing. Go. You're good at leaving. Do it."

He should say something. Should grasp at whatever safety lines were left, whatever last bastions he could find that might put them back standing safely on the same side of things, where he could reach out and run a thumb across that freckled cheek and say he was sorry.

Cas shouldered the duffel and stalked from the room.


	23. A Hunch

It was chicken pox.

It shouldn't be so funny. Sam and Dean had both had it when Dean had brought it home from a second grade classmate. Where Cas had managed to scrounge it up was anybody's guess, but when the general bad flu symptoms erupted into hundreds of tiny itchy rashes, it was difficult to deny what it was.

"Don't itch at them," Dean admonished as he plunked a mug of coffee in front of Cas. "You'll make it worse."

Cas shot Dean a dirty look and grabbed at the mug. "You can't use 'itch' that way."

Dean shrugged. "Sure you can. Something's itchy, you itch it. Except don't itch it right now."

Thoroughly frustrated, Cas deliberately raised one hand to scratch at the back of his neck in protest. "This is miserable. How am I supposed to not scratch?"

"I'll get you mittens," Dean smirked.

"Should we take him to a doctor?" Sam asked as he slid into a chair at the table with his bowl of Cheerios. "Chicken pox can be really bad in adults."

"Nah," Dean replied nonchalantly. "Stick him in an oatmeal bath until he wrinkles and slop some calamine on him."

Sam raised an eyebrow as he lifted his spoon to his mouth. "You know, there are places where people pay extra for that."

Dean promptly turned a bright red and buried his face in his mug, but not before glancing at Cas.

Cas, who was still preoccupied with the back of his neck, didn't notice.

Sam smiled into his Cheerios and took another bite. Well. There was one thing he was right about, at least.


	24. Done, Part II

The lights of the bunker had long since disappeared behind him, and the neglected streetlights of the gravel road stood like tombs for their burned-out bulbs. The darkness suited Cas just fine, though the angry stalk had devolved to something more like a weary trudge as the impact of what had just happened began to dull the edges of his consciousness even more than did the fatigue.

The twin beams of headlights somewhere far behind him cut the night and Cas's heart leapt sideways in his chest as he turned - but no. The headlights were too high off the ground. Suddenly more tired than he had been before, he turned back around and continued focusing intently on putting one foot in front of the other, shifting his duffel to the other shoulder.

The beat-up pickup truck slowed to a crawl next to him, and Cas could hear the window being rolled down. "Can I give you a lift?"

Cas swallowed hard against the sudden tempest of emotions that swirled in his middle. "No. But thanks."

"Cas, I can't just leave you to walk to town on your own. It'll take all night."

"Fine by me." Cas knew Sam wouldn't give up; he walked a few more steps in protest before sighing and wrenching open the passenger-side door.

The engine rattled. Cas toyed with a frayed hole in the upholstery of the seat. "I'm sorry," Sam finally ventured as they waited at a stop sign for another car to pass.

Cas nodded, not knowing what to say. "I assume you heard most of it."

"Yeah." The truck didn't behave as Sam tried to shift it into first; the precious seconds it took to coax it into forward motion again gave Cas plenty of time to blink hard against the stinging in his eyes.

They didn't utter another word until they finally rolled to a stop in the parking lot of the closest motel. The sudden silence as the engine cut out pressed at Cas's ears like thunder. "Thanks."

"Of course." Sam hesitated. "What are you going to do now?"

Cas ran a weary hand over his face. "I don't know. I guess - but then she's Dean's friend, too, and any contact with me might…" he trailed off as reality began to take shape around him. Of course he couldn't go to Charlie. Nor could he go to Kevin, or even Kevin's mother. Garth might, perhaps, be a safe neutral party, but other than him…

And Sam. Cas looked to the side and could see in the lines of Sam's forehead that the same thought had occurred to him, too. "Look," Sam said awkwardly, studying the steering wheel in front of him, "I'll talk to him."

"No." The word surprised Cas with its forcefulness. "It'll just make him angrier."

"Then he can hit me. Cas, you're - dude, you're my brother, too. I can't let that stop just because…"

"Sam," Cas said softly, "it's over. It's been a long time coming. And…" Cas clenched his jaw. This was nearly as hard as walking away from the bunker had been. "You're still my brother. Or as good as. And maybe someday…"

Sam nodded. "Maybe someday Dean will pull his head out of his ass." His lips twisted in a wry, sad smile. "You have cash?"

"Enough." Even if he didn't, Cas wasn't going to take money from Sam. He'd made his way before on his wits. He could do it again.

"If you need anything, you call. Promise me." The offer throbbed with such sincerity that Cas had to swallow.

"I will." He wouldn't. They both knew it. Cas didn't look at Sam as he shoved open the door and stepped down from the truck.

He did have enough cash, for at least the one night's stay; the room forcibly reminded him of the dozens of others just like it they'd stayed in over the years, with its hideous duvet and clanking air conditioner under the window. He lowered himself to the edge of the bed and mechanically removed his shoes and socks, lowering himself deeper and deeper into that numb state he'd managed to find before with the rhythm of his walking.

The air conditioning clanked to life just before he drifted off to sleep, waking him for just a moment. Absently he turned to his other side to throw an arm over -

_Oh._


	25. Peeling Potatoes

He was slicing carrots. Cas was peeling potatoes at the sink. The sizzle of the beef and onions in the bottom of the stew pot and their accompanying savory aroma filled the air. Things were _normal_.

And then Dean had looked up, about to say something - what exactly had completely abandoned him - and his eyes caught at Cas's steady hands, drawing the knife's edge along the skins precisely, not a wasted motion as the peels curled into the bottom of the sink, all in one piece. His face wasn't intent or lost in thought, but calm; he was focused on what his hands were doing, giving it the requisite attention but not to the exclusion of all else.

The movements were so ordinary, his eyes so content, everything from the set of his shoulders down to his bare feet so at odds with the shape of Castiel inhabiting Dean's mind that it made him blink.

Cas seemed to sense Dean's eyes; he glanced over, his hands not stopping their work. "How many did you want?" he asked, indicating the small pile of peeled potatoes next to him on a towel.

Somehow Dean's mouth was very dry. "That's good," he managed, forcing his voice to be even but only managing gruff. He wrenched his eyes back down to his carrots. They were uneven, haphazardly cut, and he set his mind to the task of undoing the damage, ignoring the sudden flush of heat that had begun creeping up the back of his neck.

In that strange, oddly removed moment of normalcy, he'd seen Cas not as a fallen angel, or as his friend; he'd almost been a stranger, and the process that had run through Dean's mind had come to the conclusion that the stranger was attractive. Someone Dean wouldn't mind touching - a hand resting on the shoulder, or maybe pressing lightly at the small of the back. Someone Dean wouldn't mind touching _him_, with those careful hands given a new objective more suited to their supple dexterity.

The realization stunned him, and its implications began percolating through Dean's mind with such force that the carrots lay forgotten in front of him.

That Cas was a man was really beside the point. Dean had known for some time now that gender was not as insurmountable an issue to him as he'd been brought up to believe; knowing that and being at peace with it, however, were two completely different animals, ones that he had always assumed he would wrestle with when he had the energy. Or a good reason. Like the one rinsing the knife in the sink before he cubed the peeled potatoes.

Because of course it was Cas. It was painfully obvious, now that he had seen it; it had always been Cas. Dean stared unseeing at the carrots as it dawned on him that he'd never even noticed the slow, steady spiral of falling in love, but it was undeniably there now: a great yawning sensation in his chest that had hidden for - for who even knew how long - waiting for this exact moment.

This moment of mundane domesticity, devoid of demons or monsters or angels, free of fear or urgency, when he could look up and see a man peeling potatoes and finally_ feel_ for the first time.

And then Cas looked up, mouth open to ask a question about his potatoes, and Dean found that he'd abandoned his carrots and had been staring at Cas for some time now.

"Dean?" he asked uncertainly.

The words were there, perhaps not the ones that Dean wanted to say, but words were there and ready to pour out. He almost reached up to cross the space between them, pull Cas closer, and say everything without even using words.

Instead, he blinked, and closed his mouth. This was a fragile thing. It needed the same slow, circling approach with which it had gripped him, lest he break it with haste.

"Can we talk? After dinner?" he asked instead, choosing his words carefully.

Cas's brow furrowed in bewilderment, but Dean thought he saw the tiniest flickering of understanding, as well. "Of course."

Dean could see the play of a smile at the corners of Cas's eyes and he very nearly smiled in return.

Cas returned to his potatoes. Dean watched him; the set of his shoulders, down to his bare feet on the tile, settled into a new shape in his mind. It was still Cas. But now it was Cas as Dean had always known him, but had simply never _seen_ with anything other than his eyes.

And, in the way of all things that are new, it was brimming with potential.


	26. Done, Part III

Days passed, as days are wont to do, and Cas was surprised that they did not drag as he had assumed they would. Rather, they lurched by in odd dollops of time, and it was with puzzlement that he looked up from the bucket of dirty mop water early one evening to realize that five weeks had passed, and that he had not thought about Dean at all today.

He should start thinking about getting a place of his own. The hostel was in some ways cheaper than rent, but saturated him with the feel of temporariness, as though he were holding his breath.

Even if it hurt, he had to start breathing again.

In the stuttered motions of someone still learning the patterns of something new, he stowed his cleaning cart in the utility closet in the hallway, nodding farewell to the surgeons and nurses as they passed him. They liked him here. He was thorough - always a good thing for a man who cleaned operating rooms to be - and he was quiet. No one seemed to look down on him, either, which was…refreshing.

And there was a girl. Not that he had any interest in her - she was a good ten years younger than his supposed age - but she did in him, and that was intriguing. She smiled at him as he swiped his badge to get into the locker room, and he found himself smiling shyly back. He shouldn't encourage her. He didn't want to be the reason she ever stopped smiling.

He pulled on his street clothes with a distracted air, tossing that day's green scrubs into the laundry hamper on his way out. He had a day off tomorrow. He could spend the time looking for a place to live. The thought somehow cheered him, so much so that it was difficult to believe that the same thought had caused him such despair not even a month ago.

"I guess a lot can happen in a month," he said to himself as he pushed open the door to the stairwell. He'd taken to doing that - talking to himself. It would often be the only words he would speak on days he didn't work - narrating his morning cup of coffee, musing about the differences between whole wheat and nine-grain bagels. He worried slightly that he was going insane; he finally settled on the theory that he was just lonely. Just wanted someone to talk to, even if that someone was himself.

It was dark outside; the city had not yet gotten around to fixing the streetlight outside the often-ignored side entrance to the hospital, and the trees on either side of the street blocked the orange glow of the other lights. Cas pushed open the door and stepped out - and then halted, his breath freezing in his chest almost painfully.

Dean uncrossed his arms and pushed himself away from the post of the burned-out streetlight he'd been leaning against. He looked just the same as he always had, and somehow wildly out of place as he thrust himself into the haven of normalcy Cas had tried so hard to collect around himself.

Swallowing, his Adam's apple bobbing, Dean took a step forward. "Hey."


	27. Back Here

Cas looked thoroughly miserable; he ran his hand through his hair, standing it up on end, mouth forming shapes but no words coming out, explanation beyond him as Dean stood silently seething. "A trucker turned me on to them," he said finally, a pleading note in his voice. "When I was hitchhiking. I…didn't like sleeping, those first few weeks. I still don't."

"Then drink coffee," Dean said flatly, brandishing the bottle of pills. "Chug an energy drink. I'm not - _we're_ not going to end up like this. Do you hear me? We're not ending up there!"

Puzzled, Cas opened his mouth, but Dean turned away, hurling the bottle at the trash can by the door. It missed; the bottle rattled as it rolled across the floor. He'd flush them later.

They were not going to end up back there. So far Lucifer was only showing up to Sam in dreams. He'd hopefully turned Cas off the amphetamines early. _They were not going to end up back there._

There was the lightest touch on his shoulder. "Dean. I'm sorry."

Dean didn't want to turn. Cas was wearing the damn blue shirt. He hadn't been able to put his finger on it until he'd found the bottle in Cas's duffel instead of the toothpaste he'd been looking for, but he was wearing the damn shirt. Cities were falling into drastic quarantine measures. And Lucifer was offering to free Sam from the illness the Trials had drowned him in.

"Something's wrong."

"Everything's wrong." Dean turned to face Cas, impulsively wrapping his arms around the fallen's angel and resting his chin on one shoulder. "And I can't stop it."

_No matter what choices you make, whatever details you alter, we will always end up…here._

He'd always defied those words. Now he wondered if defiance was, in fact, denial, and there was no other place they could end up.


	28. Done, Part IV

Dean surprised him further by unlocking the door to the back seat of the Impala and sliding in, beckoning Cas to follow. Numerous flashes of symbolism flitted through Cas's mind - Dean surrendering the control of the driver's seat, the willingness to stay put until the conversation was done - as he shut the door firmly behind him, muffling the sounds of the city night outside.

The silence felt thick enough for Cas to reach out and knead, shape into something more palatable. He swallowed. "You look good."

"I guess." Dean was focused on his hands, folded loosely in his lap.

Cas nodded slowly. He wanted to ask what Dean was doing here. Why he'd seen it as necessary to come and bring Cas's carefully constructed world crashing back down around him. He was suddenly suffused with a subtle anger, sharper than simple frustration, and he resolved to not say a word until Dean started the dialogue he clearly wanted so desperately.

It seemed as though they might be there all night. Dean was studying his hands as though they contained the answer to the universe's mysteries. Cas waited.

"I was stupid," Dean said finally. "You called me out, and I was a bitch about it. I'm sorry."

It was, perhaps, a gross oversimplification of the three-hour shouting match they'd had, but it was a start. Cas swallowed. "Okay."

Dean looked up from his hands. "'Okay?' That's it?"

"What do you want, Dean?" They should be anywhere but here. He couldn't pace here. There was too much tension building for this tiny space to handle. "You said something that I agreed with. So I agreed with you."

"What do I want?" Dean unfolded his hands and made as though to reach across, but stopped, resting his hand on the seat between them. His brow dipped and in that slight movement Cas could fully see just how much Dean was trying to hold back. "I want you to come home. Please."

The look of desperation in Dean's eyes was too intense for Cas to look at for more than a few seconds. He turned his face away, looking out the window at the bushes before he glanced back. "You think you can come apologize, and then we'll go driving off into the sunset like nothing ever happened?"

Cas hated the tiny flinch that flashed across Dean's face. He hated that he'd caused it. "I - look, I know you're still mad, and you've got every right to be -"

"You think I stayed away because I was angry?" The words were bubbling to the surface now, miasmas of sickly guilt and sorrow and frustration. "I _left _because I was angry. I stayed away because - 'cause there was no point in going back."

"There is," Dean began, but Cas shook his head violently.

"There isn't," he said firmly. "Everything we fought about - those problems are still there, don't you see? Apologizing for them doesn't make them go away. Or do you really think we broke up because we hadn't been trying hard enough?"

"Yes!" Dean said forcefully, turning in the seat to face Cas, eyes pleading. "I wasn't! I always took for granted that you were, because I - I always took _you _for granted. I took advantage of everything you ever did for me - and you called me on it and I didn't want to hear it and…" He brought himself up short, the words threatening to break down his wall of self-control as they tumbled out faster. "I even took for granted that you'd come back, because you always have before," he said in a low voice. "And that's the problem. It's me. I wasn't trying. I never did. But I want to." He took a great, shaky breath. "Cas, I thought I didn't know what love was until I had you. I was dead wrong. I didn't know what love was until I didn't have you anymore. And I can't sleep knowing it was my fault I lost you."

Swallowing against the tightness in his chest, Cas dared to look up from his lap, touching eyes with Dean in a tentative, hesitant glance. Pain twisted in his middle, just as he'd known it would: Dean always wore every emotion so plainly on his face that it was impossible to not feel as he felt.

Dean set his jaw and reached out to take Cas's hand. Cas let him. "I need you. Always have. Please. I want to try again. And I'll try, this time. I swear it."

Dean's hand felt so warm on his, the curves of it fitting exactly to his own. Cas could feel the pulse in it, feel his pulse changing pace to match it. He closed his eyes. "Can I ask for one thing?"

"Anything."

"Space. To think. For as long as I need."


	29. Gestures

They weren't much ones for public displays of affection, but Sam knew all the tiny gestures.

Cas sometimes wore Dean's shirts. Not in the patchwork motley sort of way he'd worn both Dean and Sam's things in the first weeks after they'd found him after the Fall, but with a quiet pride. He held himself differently when he wore Dean's shirts, as though he was more aware of the fabric against his skin, of the very visible symbol he was displaying by wearing them. Sam wasn't sure whether Dean noticed the subtle change in Cas's demeanor, or if Dean just liked to look at Cas wearing his clothes, but Sam definitely noticed the way Dean's eyes lingered on the fallen angel on the occasions that Cas opted to dress himself from Dean's duffel rather than his own.

The pattern of the beer was something Sam was rather proud of himself for figuring out - the beer cycled, depending on who had done the grocery run that week: when Cas had done the shopping, it would be Dean's favorite amber in the fridge, but when Dean shopped, it was Cas's lager of choice.

When Dean drove, Cas got shotgun. If you didn't know Dean, you didn't know the kind of importance Dean placed in who got to sit next to him as the miles rolled away under the tires. But Sam knew Dean, and had been in that seat for years; that Cas had usurped him wasn't cause for jealousy at all. (There was, surprisingly, more room for Sam to stretch out when he had the backseat to himself.) Instead, it was cause for a silent celebration that his brother had finally begun to venture outside the narrow, self-imposed definition of himself that wound so tightly around Sam. He worried about that occasionally; worried that Dean wouldn't know what to do with himself if Sam was gone. But with Cas in the front seat, he worried a little less.

And when Dean's hand was not on the gear shift, it rested lightly upon Cas's knee - another small gesture that was impossible to miss. Sometimes Cas would reach out and lay his hand on top of Dean's. They didn't give each other lingering, sappy looks when they touched like that; it was almost as though Dean was confirming to himself that Cas was still there, and Cas was reassuring Dean that yes, he was. Would always be. If they were on a long stretch of highway they'd stay like that for hours, until Dean had to downshift and he moved - but his hand always returned.

Sam couldn't point to any one thing and say "look, they're in love." But he also couldn't point at any one raindrop and say "look, it's raining." It was true nevertheless.


	30. Already Knew

He doesn't know what to do.

Dean's breathing - or a machine is breathing for him, one of the two - and he looks so peaceful but it's all an illusion, a trick of the clear bags and their tubes and the needles. Cas didn't know how much he hated needles until he saw how many had been involved in settling Dean into this bed.

Sam is there, and Charlie, and Charlie had spent some time holding Cas as tears numbly ran down his face and soaked the shoulder of her shirt and he'd felt that she understood, somehow. Sam stares at Dean on the bed as though unable to believe that it's real.

There are peaks and valleys and numbers and colors on the screens at the head of Dean's bed. Cas doesn't know what they mean. He can name every major vessel, enumerate every muscle in the human body in alphabetical order in seven languages, but this knowledge seems far removed from the almost ritualistic actions the doctors are taking as they stand with their grim faces around Dean's bed.

And Cas is useless, worse than useless, because there was a time when he could have done something. Mended the contusions, stemmed the slow bleed whose source baffled the doctors, done something. His hands now were good for nothing but stroking the rough stubble of his cheeks.

"I never told him," he says to Sam one morning as they pickat the tasteless hospital food.

"He knew," Sam says, looking up. "I know he did."

"I might never get to tell him now. He might never hear it from me."

Sam takes a long swallow from his orange juice. "Dean's tough. He'll pull through."

They've been saying that and variations of that for days; any improvement is too small for anyone to tell.

Cas is alone in the room with the hum of the machines and the steady beeps that he's learned to tune out, and Dean looks so small and shrunken and Cas is overwhelmed by everything he should have said and could have done and wanted to do and he can't stop himself from leaning over the bed and pressing his lips to Dean's forehead, knowing the gesture is useless but beyond caring.

A monitor blips. It is a different blip, and it takes a moment before Cas realizes that Dean's eyelids are fluttering.

This has happened before, as he slowly rises from the enforced sedation the doctors are keeping him under; any second now a nurse will appear and change the IV bag and Dean will drift off to wherever he has been spending his time.

And there she is, the night nurse, the one called Felicity who has brought Cas coffee. She gives him a sad smile and goes to change the IV bag.

But Cas's eyes are drawn to a slow twitch in Dean's hand that lays on the outside of the covers. The fingers spasm, then curl in on themselves, and...

The room blurs, and Cas wipes his eyes. Dean's unmistakable thumbs-up relaxes as the sedative washes over him again.

Cas would be able to tell him. Even if he already knew.


	31. Unexpected Lover

Author's Note: Please make note of the changed rating of this collection. Also, as fair warning, this is a Cas/Other with Destiel overtones.

And yes, _Done_ will be concluded with part V tomorrow.

* * *

Cas slowly makes his way across the country to the Winchesters, stopping in hole-in-the-wall diners and truck stops and hostels along the way, trying to barter a meal and a shower for an evening of dish-washing or mopping. It's in the common room of a mostly empty hostel, disinterestedly watching some late-night talk show while trying to turn weariness and fatigue into actual sleepiness, that a man about Dean's age shyly approaches him and they begin talking.

As Cas gets more and more flustered at what is obviously becoming open flirtation - something he's never really attempted, let alone mastered, and it shows - the man seems more and more enamored until he finally asks if Cas wants to stay in his room for the night. Four beds, he assures Cas quickly, though the other three are empty tonight.

Cas has already earned his keep for the night, and is tempted to say no, but this is the first person in weeks who hasn't treated him with thinly - or not-so-thinly - veiled disgust, and the offer of companionship is suddenly more than Cas can even hope to resist. Even knowing full well what the other man has in mind, despite the promise of four beds, he accepts.

The man won't stop calling Cas beautiful, gorgeous - the praises fall from his lips as though they're the easiest thing in the world to say, and they feel almost as good as what the man is doing to him, all feather-light touches and pressure and fullness until Cas is overcome and so is his unexpected lover, and they lay gasping in the twisted sheets listening to the bass pumping from the dance club across the street and Cas _can't believe he just did that_.

But it is _so nice_ to feel _wanted _somewhere, by someone_._

Morning is marked by bagels, their staleness hidden by a quick toasting, with instant oatmeal and bottled orange drink that had likely never seen a tree. The man is bashful once again, and asks if Cas is going to stick around.

With a surprising amount of regret, Cas responds that he has somewhere to get to, and the sad smile in the man's eyes shows that he expected the response.

The man has a bicycle locked out back, and as he throws one leg over, he looks to Cas in a sort of hopeful farewell. "You're going to make some guy very happy someday. I hope he's where you're headed."

Cas had never thought of it that way, exactly, but as he watches the man cycle off down the empty city street of early morning, he realizes the truth of it.

He shifts his tattered backpack on his shoulder and gets his bearings, then begins walking steadily in the general direction of Kansas.


	32. Done, Part V

The sheets were clammy where they touched Cas, wicking away the fine sheen of sweat that stood on his skin in the afterglow. Groggily, he peered through half-open eyes at Dean next to him, and was rewarded with a lazy smile and an arm thrown across his shoulders.

This was the opposite of space.

But despite all his best intentions, Cas had not been able to help himself; he'd felt all resolve melt away as Dean had wrapped him in a hopeless farewell embrace and he'd leaned into the touch, the arms that were so familiar that he could hardly tell where he stopped and Dean began. He'd curled his fingers in the folds of Dean's jacket when Dean tried to step back, not wanting it to end, not wanting it to ever end -

The kiss had been entirely his fault, soft and languid at first and then gaining heat - and it was so easy. It was like it always had been. The weeks and miles and furious words had disappeared like a pricked soap bubble and Cas could feel tears beginning to pool beneath his eyelids as he clutched Dean to him, a drowning man grasping his only lifeline.

They hadn't said a word - at least not a coherent word - since Dean had gruffly whispered "stay with me tonight?" and Cas had nodded, not caring what it meant. Not caring that it might hurt them both later. He ached for it - not for the sex itself, but for the intimacy, the intertwined limbs and the absolute knowledge that he was safe and warm and loved.

There was no denying that here - there was no room for anything else in that honey-warm gaze Dean was directing towards him between barely-parted lashes. Cas felt saturated in it. He never wanted to leave this again.

But…

Dean must have detected some sort of change - the cadence of Cas's breathing, or the stiffening of his shoulders, or hardening in his eyes. "No," he said, almost pleading, "Cas, I…"

"This was - not a mistake. Never a mistake, Dean, never. But…"

"Cas, we're so close."

"That's what scares me." Regret a heavy weight in his chest, Cas sat up, leaning against the headboard of the bed. "This is how it started. So intense and perfect and we didn't know how to say no to it. And we just jumped, without checking how deep the water was first, and…" He closed his eyes, running his hands over his face. "We can't do that again. This is fragile. We can't just - love is all well and good. But we need a foundation. We can't just build a house on sand and expect it to hold."

"You're not coming home, are you?"

Cas uncovered his eyes and locked gazes with Dean. "Not yet. I - we - need to…I can't do this again. It would tear us apart."

Dean nodded solemnly. "We do it right, then? Slow and steady?"

"Slow and steady."

Slow and steady.

Slow and steady lead them clumsily through the next month; Dean would drive out from the bunker and meet Cas at the hospital at the end of his shift; they would go out for a beer and often end up falling asleep in the backseat of the Impala, barely-clothed and content to the marrow of their bones.

Slow and steady threaded the days along its cord like beads; Dean got his own dresser drawer in Cas's tiny apartment barely worthy of the name, and the beaming smile that widened across Dean's face when Cas shyly presented it to him lit up the entire room.

Slow and steady was punctuated by days and weeks when Dean was off hunting; the bed was not empty, because Cas had learned to sleep alone, but it was waiting. Patiently.

Slow and steady saw flowers thrust cheekily at one another, pretending the sentiment was a joke but treasuring every moment; it saw them both alone, but not lonely. It saw Cas smiling more and Dean smiling more and Cas introducing Dean to his coworkers at a picnic.

And, when the time was right, slow and steady led to Cas loading as many of his possessions as he could into boxes, and Dean cleaning out his dresser drawer, and Cas giving his keys back to the landlord.

"You sure about this?" Dean asked, stopping before turning right onto the gravel road that led to the bunker. "I don't want - are we ready for this?" He swallowed. "Can we do this without fucking it up again?"

Cas reached over and laid a hand on Dean's knee. "Let's find out."

Dean nodded, and turned the wheel of the Impala towards home.

_Afterword_

_Thank you, everyone: for reading this month, for your comments, for telling people about this fic, for your encouragement. It was terribly fun, if sometimes difficult - there are two ficlets I wrote that I couldn't even post here due to their rating (they can be found on my AO3 account under the same penname). _

_I will be continuing to post my ficlets as I write them, in a different collection, but definitely not one a day - that's a pace that I can't maintain for long. I suggest you subscribe to me so you don't miss anything. And if you enjoyed any particular themes introduced in Between The Lines, let me know - it may spark something and I may expand upon it. And check out my other works as well._

_Thank you all again. Peace out, bitches._


End file.
